Juliet England: My deafie diary part 17 – undergoing cochlear implant surgery

Continuing Juliet’s experiences of daily life with a hearing loss – in lockdown

The evening before my cochlear implant surgery, I Skype one of my best friends, who reckons I need a ‘pep talk’.

“I’m looking forward to saying ‘Sorry?’ when people ask if my implant is making a difference,” I say.

“You need to work on your gags,” she sighs.

That night, I make the mistake of reading the patient information. The mention of the bed in the anaesthetising room: ‘higher, colder than usual and hard’ – makes it sound like a gurney on which a Death Row prisoner would be executed.

It’s impossible to sleep, and it takes me a while to realise that the pounding in my ears is not the upstairs neighbour’s annoying TV (funny how my hearing loss doesn’t discount sensitivity to noise disturbance), but my heart thumping out of control.

Still, I present myself at the private Oxford facility at which the procedure is to be carried out on the NHS, convinced I have entered my final hours. I ask the friendly receptionist to lead me to the ‘death chamber’ in my too-loud voice.

Janet, the nurse, kicks off the first of what will be many strained conversations over the next 30 hours given that everyone is, of course, wearing face masks. Next up in the procession of visitors is the knifeman himself, followed in quick succession by the anaesthetist, who, mystifyingly, appears to have no time for my cracks about lethal injection.

Then, far too quickly for my liking, I’m being led down to theatre, sporting a magnificent pair of surgical stockings and resplendent in both hospital and dressing gowns.

“Does anyone back out at this stage?” I ask the anaesthetic nurse, a Cornishman who has traded the county of his birth for a town much further east, one we both agree is a bit of a dump.

Not many, he replies, mainly children. For me, only personal pride is keeping me from doing a runner. The anaesthetist is struggling to get a line in to my hand, so says he is going to give me something to relax me. And indeed, the edges of the room and its objects soon start to soften. For some reason, I am thinking of that moment in the Bridget Jones movie where Bridget stands in the sea in Thailand yapping on about ‘all the pretty colours’.

Cliché though it sounds, genuinely the next thing I know I am waking up, and being wheeled back to my room. (I know; my own room!)

The surgeon hovers above me, beaming as he assures me everything has gone to plan.

The next few hours are marked by confusion and disorientation, not helped by my being wheeled to a new room, causing me to fret, for some reason, disproportionately, about whether they have transferred all my stuff at the same time.

Anyway, it soon becomes clear that I am in no position to go anywhere that night. With a dry mouth, extreme dizziness, unsteadiness on my feet, confusion and ringing in my ears (although, mercifully, no headache), I soon wonder if I have really been through surgery or just a particularly heavy Friday night out in Reading.

I’m particularly worried about the friend who was meant to be picking me up that evening. I ask if he is here, and think I am told he is. But when I ask if I can see him, the answer is no. Only later will I find out that he didn’t have a wasted journey.

In the end, it is early evening the next day before I finally relieve the hospital of my presence, a full 24 hours later than expected. The severe dizziness, a terrible sea-sickness and by far the worst symptom, has finally eased, and I’m able to walk. However, to my bitter disappointment, my request for a sticker saying I’ve been a brave girl is ignored.

I stay with my friend for the weekend, and definitely need to take it easy for the next few days after that – as Mr Ramsden says, once you put a general anaesthetic into the picture, there’s no such thing as ‘minor’ operation, even if a cochlear implant is hardly open-heart or organ transplant surgery.

I am being ‘switched on’, in just two days’ time, in the style of the Oxford Street lights, with all the trepidation that entails. (I’m also in awe of the sheer volume of appointments already in the diary for the next 12 months.)

In other news, a cancelled holiday this autumn has meant the payment for it was refunded to my credit card. Not an interesting fact in itself, only the last bill comprehensively failed to arrive on my doormat, so I’m not entirely sure the refund has come through, or what the balance on my card is. This doesn’t make it easy for me to pay back my holiday companion their share of the cash.

I try and sign up for online banking, but for some reason it doesn’t like the information I supply. My textphone isn’t working just now. Can they sort out a replacement bill my direct message on Twitter or instant chat, I ask? No, they can’t. I must either phone or visit a branch. I try the one in Oxford when I’m there for my pre-op appointment. It’s been closed down. Of course it has. Nearest one? Miles away in Ealing.

It seems I will just have to wait for the next bill to arrive to see where I am, and hope that I haven’t racked up any charges in the meantime and that the refund did indeed go through. Given that the bank is one that describes itself above all as ‘ethical’ (I will reluctantly spare its blushes and not name it), it seems particularly poor show. Just one more example of someone with a hearing loss being treated with shoddy contempt.